Baldur's Gate: Caliban's Crusade
by Precept
Summary: For twenty years, Caliban has lived within the walls of the fortress of Candlekeep. Now, after an attempt on his life, the young man is forced to flee the only home he has ever known. There is a secret that his father knew, a secret that someone is willing to kill for. The Coast shall be torn asunder by war unless Caliban and his friends can find who is responsible and why. (BG1)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

_He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you._

* * *

The knight fled. His heavy plate and great helm weighed him down, made navigating the staircase treacherous, and caused him to wonder if he might fall. But falling was fine, slipping back down the stairs and breaking every bone in his body was fine. It was far more preferable then letting the black armoured giant, the man who had murdered his companions effortlessly, get his hands upon him.

Reaching the top of the staircase, the knight put his arms out in front of him and lets his vambraces take most of the brunt of the wooden door. It swung off its hinges, compelled to open by the weight and force of a fleeing man in full plate. Reaching the roof had seemed like the obvious choice, to put the most distance between himself and the dark executioner, but the knight was suddenly aware of his folly.

There was nowhere to go but down, and down was a long drop on to the cobblestones below.

The executioner roared behind him, and the wooden door came apart at the hinges.

The knight turned, and set his eyes on the black-armoured fiend that had pursued him to this point. There was little to do now except to draw steel and hope that, in defiance of everything he had witnessed, he would be the one to prevail.

As the moonlight struck the great horned helm of his pursuer, fashioned in the fanged likeness of some long-dead creature, the knight wavered. The dark, armoured figure had to bend as he stepped through the door way. He was unarmed, but he hadn't needed a weapon to kill the rest of the adventuring party. Even with the moonlight striking his armour, the great black set of plate was more a moving blackness than anything else. The only thing that said the figure was even human and not some vengeful spirit was the face that could be glimpsed through the helmet - dark skinned and impassive as he killed - and the eyes.

His eyes were glowing with golden fire.

The knight swung his longsword, but the armoured figure paid the blow no mind as it glanced off his cuirass. Thick plate was immune to such blows and he reached out and snared the knight's arm in his gauntlet. His grip was like a vice and the metal of the knight's vambraces shrieked in protest. With a small twist of his wrist, the armoured figure snapped the bones in the knight's arm.

Released, the knight fell back, his sword falling from numb, useless fingers. The clatter of metal was drowned out by a booming thunderclap and rain began to fall. He had never been afraid. The knight had slain ogres, dragons and countless other beasts; the subject of songs and poems! But now he was. Now, as the black armoured giant loomed over him, he knew there was no way out. No martial prowess, no sense of honour, could save him from this _thing_.

"Please," he begged, "You can't do this-"

As if sensing his fear, the giant seemed to draw strength from it. His dark, sepulchral laughter filled the air. "I will be the last," the figure intoned, "And you will go first."

The figure seized the knight by the throat and hefted him from the ground with one hand. The knight struggled to breathe, vision blurring, feeling warm wetness along his neck from where the dark one's cruel gauntlets had cut in to his flesh. Last? First?

"There are others," the knight croaked out, "I... I can show you..."

If the dark warrior cared for his words, he gave no sign but to slam the knight against the wrought iron balustrade behind him. It gave way like it was made of naught but paper and the knight's feet, clad in metal like the rest of him, kicked to try and find purchase even as he knew that any surface was far below him now.

"Please..." the knight wheezed, as he felt the black hand begin to intensify its grip, slowly, inexorably, so the murderer could savour every moment of his imminent demise. His one good hand slapped at the black metal of his murderer's gauntlet but he may as well have been swiping at the air. Something snapped in his neck.

Laughing again, a dark and hollow sound that betrayed only a mockery of humour, the monster threw the knight from the roof.

His glowing eyes watched dispassionately as the knight fell to the ground, dead before impact. Even with an intact neck, no armour could've protected him from a fall of such a height. Taking a life was easy, simple, but more would be needed to guarantee his ascension. Many more.

As lightning split the sky and thunder roared as if sensing his mood, Sarevok Anchev wondered if the rest of his family would beg for their pitiful lives as his brother had.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

_Candlekeep_

"Books, books, and more books," Caliban said with good-natured humor, hefting the satchel of the library's newest set of tomes with ease. "Sometimes, father, I wonder if you need me for anything else at all."

Gorion smiled. It was a slight movement, only barely visible around his grey beard and stern features. "Easy, child. There is little more valuable than honest work."

"Gold perhaps. A few flagons of ale..." Caliban took each tome and set them into a bookcase, one by one. The great library of Candlekeep stretched in all directions, as large as any throne room, and was packed wall to wall with tomes. There was no greater collection of knowledge in all of the Sword Coast. And, for twenty years, it had been Caliban's home.

He looked away from his work, to find Gorion scowling at him.

"Relax, father," Caliban said, smiling earnestly. "I know. I'm just trying to liven things up. You have been rather... melancholic of late."

Gorion waved a dismissive hand. "It is nothing, Caliban. I'm just growing old, and seeing my son with such spirit only makes me think of my youth. It seems so far away now."

"You could always join Hull and Fuller and I for a drink. Or find Imoen and tell her a story. Either of those should put a spring in your step."

"Drinking is the sport of young men, and I fear that Imoen would now run circles around me. No, it is just the passage of time."

Caliban took a quick glance out the window. Mid-morning. He had places to be, things to do, people to see. "Speaking of the time, father, I have more jobs to do. I'll see you tonight. Shall I cook again?"

Gorion shook his head. "When you've finished your tasks, come find me at the stairs just outside. Have Winthrop provide you with some gear- a blade, armour, travelling supplies. This should cover it." Gorion reached into his pocket and produced a coinpurse, which he threw to Caliban.

Caliban caught the small bag and pocketed it into his breeches. "I don't understand," he replied. "For what purpose?"

Gorion turned his dark eyes on Caliban and said, "We're leaving Candlekeep. Tonight. Our home is no longer safe."

* * *

As Caliban left the library behind him and began to walk the grounds of the great fortress, he tried to make sense of his father's words. Gorion wasn't a man given to flights of fancy or even to many jokes. He was a kind man, a generous man, but he was a serious man. He always had been. It's what allowed him to fit in so easily amongst the dour monks, scribes and scholars of Candlekeep.

Of course, being surrounded by monks, scribes and scholars and hemmed in by stone fortifications, didn't make it the best environment to grow up in. But Caliban had. It might not have been perfect but the cold stone walls and cold, serious individuals were home and family all the same. Why would his father suddenly insist on departing?

The question circled around Caliban's head as he walked the grounds, a pack of items slung over his shoulder. No one was superfluous in Candlekeep. Everyone had their part to play, their role in keeping the great fortress and the great library operating smoothly. For Caliban, who had never been smart enough to be a scholar, nor patient enough to be a scribe, nor faithful enough to work in the temple of Oghma, the great god of knowledge, he had only one thing to fall back on - his strength.

Caliban had always been strong. Even as a boy he had been much taller than Imoen, the only other person of his age inside Candlekeep's walls. At sixteen, he had been beating Candlekeep's Watchers in feats of strength and machismo. Gorion had always frowned on those, even if he won. At twenty, he was the tallest, strongest person in the keep. Instantly recognisable, even without being Gorion's child. But being the strongest man in a castle of scholars had its benefits - there was never a shortage of work and plenty of opportunities to earn a bit of coin.

Gorion's words circled around his head: our home is no longer safe.

Caliban tried to push them from his mind, but his father's steadfast, serious nature made it difficult. He would just have to quash it with work and Caliban ducked inside the Candlekeep Inn. He was barely two steps inside when a deep, hearty voice called out to him. Winthrop, the publican.

Winthrop slapped his meaty arms across his abdomen, the portly man doing his best to look intimidating. "Hey there, lad! I hope you haven't forgotten the five thousand gold fee to enter my humble tavern. Just because you're Gorion's ward doesn't mean you are free of Candlekeep customs!"

Caliban smiled and he felt it wash away the ominous words from his father. "You know that joke gets funnier every time I hear it, Winthrop."

"Mmm. Gorion did well by you, he did. So, what can I do for you? Some drinks?"

"I only just woke up, and business comes before pleasure."

Winthrop laughed. "Aye, you really are your father's son."

Caliban reached into his pack and felt around for the scroll case within. "Is Firebead in? I heard he had returned to Candlekeep. Tethtoril bade that I give this to him."

"Aye," Winthrop replied and pointed over towards the fireplace. "Good seeing you, lad. Be sure to come and enjoy my hospitality tonight. Oh, and if you see Imoen, tell her to get back here and do her chores!"

"I will, Winthrop. Thanks again."

Firebead Elvenhair stood by the fireplace, warming his hands. The flames matched his red beard and clashed horribly with his green robes.

"I've not seen you here in some time, Firebead," Caliban said, offering him the scroll case. "May I ask what brings you to Candlekeep?"

"Ah, Caliban!" Firebead's eyes lit up with recognition. "I am glad to see that time has not hardened your heart towards an old man such as myself. My thanks for the scroll - with the iron crisis upon us, the trip from Beregost was more hazardous then I would care to relate. Perhaps another time."

The iron crisis. A calm, careful name for the dreadful rumors that had been sweeping through Candlekeep as the events themselves swept through the rest of the Sword Coast. It was said that iron was becoming as brittle as glass, shattering when it was worked or used in battle. It was said that bandits were sweeping up and down the major roads, taking iron and leaving the gold behind. There were other rumours too, of imminent war between Baldur's Gate in the north and Amn to the south.

But Candlekeep was its own world.

Firebead stowed the scroll away and looked to Caliban, holding gold coins between his fingers. "Here, some payment. And a small spell, to protect you from whatever you might face tonight." Firebead muttered an arcane incantation and made a brief gesture with his hands. For a moment, the air around Caliban seemed to shimmer.

"My thanks, Firebead. Be safe on the road."

It was only when he was halfway to the stables, to check up on Dreppin and his cows, that he grasped what Firebead had said.

* * *

Dreppin was one of the younger men in Candlekeep, which placed him at around forty summers. He was nursing his favourite stock, a black and white cow named Nessa. Dreppin cooed and murmured to the large animal like it was his own child. In a cold fortress, Dreppin was, perhaps, the warmest presence.

"Nice day, ain't it?" Dreppin said, although he didn't look up. Caliban couldn't bring himself to disagree. "Too bad Nessa here ain't enjoyin' it, though, her bein' sick 'n' all. I need to get her one of them potions Hull's got. Y'know, the ones that make ya not-sick. He stayed up drinkin' last night and got hauled outta bed to man the gates early this morning so I bet he's got a few of them lyin' around somewheres."

Caliban reached into his pack and produced a thin vial of green liquid. He handed it over to Dreppin.

"Heh, yer a wonder, you are," Dreppin replied, uncorking the vial and moving to tip Nessa's head back. "Stick with me and we'll go far... Well, okay, stick with me and we'd prob'ly never leave the walls of Candlekeep, would we..."

"Probably not," Caliban replied, "But I'm not sure that would be a bad thing, would it?"

Dreppin just shrugged, watching Nessa as the cow drank from the vial. "They say the bandits out there ain't after gold and gems any more but just plain old iron. It's one of them whatchamacallits, paradoxes or whatever: It's dangerous so you want to wear some good solid plate and carry an axe that'd make Tempus jealous but, rather than protectin' ya, it just makes everyone want a piece of you, right? Given my druthers, I guess I'd rather stay right here... But you, Caliban? Yer not 'sposed to be here. I can feel it."

"I suppose, Dreppin," Caliban replied, gathering up his pack. He only had a few more stops to make. "Let me know when Nessa is back on her feet, okay?"

Candlekeep ran on Caliban's errands. At least, it certainly felt that way to the young man. Firebead and Dreppin had only been the start. From there, he retrieved a book for the absent-minded scholar Phylidia, retrieved Hull's longsword that he had misplaced beneath his bunk, and dispensed a number of tomes to the monks who needed them for whatever reason. The sun had begun its slow descent towards the horizon now. Evening would not be far behind.

Caliban made his way towards the storehouses. Outside, Reevor, a bearded dwarf who had never quite put his military days behind him, shot him an angry glare. His patience had been worn thin and with good reason. Candlekeep's cats had decided to let a rat infestation take root in the stores - his stores.

"Get in there," Reevor grumbled, "And clean out all those thrice-damned rats!"

Caliban slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. Inside, the storehouse was dark and dingy. It stank of mold and other musty things that clogged his nostrils, giving the air a disgusting sense of thickness. Caliban had just taken up a wooden staff - one Hull affectionately referred to as the Walloper - when the door opened behind him, bringing with it the welcome relief of fresh air.

"You don't need to check on me, Reevor. I will take care of the rats," Caliban replied. When there was no response, he turned towards the door.

He tried not to let the shock register on his face. Reevor wasn't there. It was a tall, lanky man that Caliban did not recognise - and he recognised everyone in Candlekeep. The man was wearing a shaggy tunic and breeches and, even in the darkness of the stores, the knife in his hand was apparent.

"Oh good," the knife-wielding man said, a bright, too-wide grin stretching over his face, barely perceptible through his long bangs. "I guess I've gone and found you first! You're Gorion's little ward, aren't you?"

Caliban let his feet drift into a stance that Gorion had drilled into him at a young age. Gorion had frowned on violence but the Sword Coast was a dangerous place and self-defence was vital.

"I might be," Caliban replied. "Who're you?"

The man made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Who I am isn't important, but who you are is. Someone's put a fine amount of coin upon your head, mate, and it's something I intend to collect."

The knife slashed upwards, glittering silver in the dark stores, and Caliban ducked backwards, shouting in surprise. He narrowly avoided losing his eye.

Everything seemed to blur then. One moment, he had the staff in his hands and was trying to force the unknown man backwards and away. In another moment, Caliban had gripped the man by the hair, taking the long, dark, greasy strands in between his fingers. In another, he slammed his head against the wall, once and then again and again, until he head something crack and blood had smeared onto the stones. The sound of the man's skull breaking was so much more muted than he had assumed such violence would sound like.

And then everything passed and all he could hear was his harsh, heavy breathing. Caliban dropped the man to the floor and stepped backwards, realisation of what had just happened beginning to dawn on him. It was like he was coming out of some choking fog, struggling to breathe, needing to catch his breath. His feet felt heavy and yet they guided him towards the door, away from the corpse of his assassin. Assassin. The thought seemed ludicrous and unreal: someone had tried to kill him.

Had tried to murder him.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

_Candlekeep_

Caliban staggered from the stores, wiping his hands against a ragged cloth, as if that could wipe away the heavng retches that threatened to rack his body. His breathing persisted in feeling difficult and a strange prickling feeling had settled over his scalp and shoulders. It wasn't sure if the feeling was shock or fear or relief - that he had survived when the other man - his assassin - had not.

He had killed a man. He had beat someone's head against the wall until his skull broke. The fact that it was in self-defence didn't make it any easier to deal with.

Caliban set his hands on the edge of a barrel and tried to compose himself. How had that man managed to get inside the fortress walls? Candlekeep was one of the most impressive battlements this side of the Sword Coast. There was a gate, sure, but the monks guarded the portal with the strictest of edicts to match the rest of the fortifications. No one came in without appeasing the draconian edicts of the monks. The price of entry was always something incredible, some lost text or ancient book that the monks needed to add to their ever-increasing collection. Caliban doubted that the assassin had such resources available to him. Therefore, he should have never gotten past the gate.

Unless he had come with someone else.

Or unless the monks were compromised.

If that was the case, Caliban had the sudden, chilling realisation that no one could be trusted. He needed to find his father, whose words about their home no longer being safe felt like they were being shouted in his ear. He needed a blade. He needed armor. He needed-

"Caliban?" The old voice was instantly recognisable. Parda, his tutor. Familiar, friendly.

"Are you okay?" Parda was saying, "I heard shouting and... You are cut there, above your eye. Goodness, child, what happened?"

Caliban raised his hand, touched his fingers to his brow. They came back red. The knife must have nicked him during the fight.

"It was just, um... Just one of the store cats, Parda. It didn't like me petting it. Just a scratch. It's nothing."

Parda frowned. His red robes matched the blood on Caliban's fingertips, matched the blood on the stone wall of the storehouse from where he had beaten a man's head until the skull cracked. The old man, his face hidden under a thick hood, just shook his head. "Oh, child, I have been your tutor since you were but a babe and it is only now that I wonder if my teachings were enough..."

The sorrow in his voice cut Caliban to the bone. He felt his face fall but he still couldn't bear to mention the truth of the matter. Someone had broken into their home and tried to kill him. Parda was perceptive, sure, and he must've been able to assume that something terrible had transpired in the building behind them. That is what Caliban chose to believe. The alternative, that his kindly tutor, the old man who had always snuck him sweets when his father wasn't looking, was in league with the assassin was far too horrifying to consider.

Parda set his bony, wizened hand on Caliban's shoulder. The strength in the older man's grip was surprising.

"Go, Caliban, go," Parda said, firmly, "Find your father. I think he knew that this day would come."

* * *

Every motion set Caliban on edge, even inside the familiar, warm space of Winthrop's tavern. He tried not to let his eyes glance around too much, dragging them away from every darkened corner and secluded vestibule. Even kindly Firebead, scrutinizing his scroll by the fireplace, had become a suspicious figure. Caliban had to compose himself, had to remember that not everyone was a greasy-haired assassin with a knife in their hand and murder in their eyes. But Candlekeep had been safe until today, and today the whole world had gone mad.

"It's just a bit of a headache," Caliban reassured Winthrop. "My father sent me to purchase a blade. I need something versatile, a hand-and-a-half blade if you have one."

Winthrop nodded. He reached under the bar and pulled out a bastard sword and scabbard, setting it on the counter top. "For you, Caliban, I'll cut you a deal. A dozen gold pieces."

Caliban handed over the gold and hefted the blade, testing its weight. With the sword in his hand, he felt a bit more secure. Practice sparring with Hull and the other guards let him think he could handle another assassin. He clung to that thought. "It'll do. And armor?"

Winthrop gave Caliban an apologetic grimace. "We had some armor, but it was plague-touched. Saw it crumble with my very own eyes. You'd have to ask Hull for his set, I reckon, if you wanted anything in a short time."

Caliban cursed.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Winthrop asked.

"I'm sure," Caliban replied, strapping the sword around his waist. "I just- It's the headache. I'll see you soon, Winthrop."

The words felt false. The words were false. Gorion had always abhorred dishonesty and to not tell Winthrop that both he and his father were leaving left a pain in Caliban's chest. Winthrop had always been like a jovial uncle, with poor jokes and worse habits. But he had always been a friend. What would Winthrop and everyone else think when both Caliban and his father were found to have slipped away during the night?

As Caliban made his way to the inner grounds, back towards his rendezvous with his father, he tried not to think about it.

He had just caught sight of his father, standing upon the steps of the library with a deep sense of concern written over his features, when a pink and purple blur of cloth leapt from the bushes. Imoen beamed a bright, happy smile at Caliban. "Heya!"

"It's me," she continued, giving Caliban a look of concern, "Imoen. Your oldest friend? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

Caliban realised that his hand had fallen to the hilt of his new sword and he yanked his hand away, crossing it over his chest. "Maybe I have," he admitted. "You realise Winthrop's been looking for you all day? Where've you been?"

Imoen waved her hand in a vaguely dismissive fashion, as if she was indicating the entirety of Candlekeep with a simple gesture. "Around! But look at you with that new sword. I'm surprised Gorion let you off your chores. I was going to ask if you had time for a story, but I can see you don't..."

"It's not that."

"Well, what is it then?" Imoen crossed her arms. Her long brown hair and pleasant facial features belied any attempt to appear intimidating.

Caliban looked over Imoen's shoulder, at his father, who still seemed to in the midst of some fretful reverie. "My father is getting ready to travel. And me with him."

"A journey, huh?" Imoen asked, curling her long brown locks around her forefinger. "I never get to go travelling. Sure wish I could go with you. Really, I do."

"I'll ask if you can come with us," Caliban offered. If Candlekeep wasn't safe, and the attempt on his life had made that abundantly clear, Caliban wasn't about to leave his only friend behind.

Imoen shook her head, but she smiled. "Oh, don't be silly, Gorion would never even let you finish the sentence. Especially after what that letter of his said..." Imoen suddenly caught herself, eyes wide. "Did I say that? No, of course I didn't. Never saw no letter, nope. I'll just get back to work now. You said Winthrop was looking for me?"

And, as quick as she had appeared, Imoen raced off in the direction of Winthrop's tavern. Caliban steeled himself, tried to vanish away any sense of dread, and walked over towards his father. With a cough, he cleared his throat.

"Ah, there you are," Gorion said, looking up. His worried expression vanished like it had never been there. "I know this is all very unnerving, but you must trust me. It is very important that we leave Candlekeep immediately. Time, my son, is of the essence."

Gorion led the way, away from the steps of the great library-citadel and towards the front gate. One of the Watchers on gate duty flipped up his helmet visor and Caliban recognised Hull instantly. Hull cast him an incredulous, questioning look but Caliban could only shake his head in reply. Hull knew better than the question his father, however, and so Caliban just walked past.

"Where're we headed, father?" Caliban asked, keeping pace with the older man. "Can you tell me that at least?"

"Alas, I cannot," Gorion replied, speaking over his shoulder. "For I have not truly decided yet. All that is certain is that we will be far safer on the move. Perhaps the woods might offer some secluded security, or perhaps the city of Baldur's Gate would offer cover amidst its teaming throngs of people."

That feeling of dread returned, settling at the pit of Caliban's stomach. His father was never unsure of himself or the direction he would take. Something was wrong. Whatever was forcing them to leave home, Caliban suddenly knew it wasn't operating to Gorion's schedule. This wasn't something Gorion had planned. Something had forced his hand.

The great gates of Candlekeep began to open, the great iron portcullis beginning to rise. The gatewarden opened it just enough for Gorion and Caliban to slip through and then waited while Gorion turned back to address his son.

"Listen carefully. If we ever become separated you must make your way to the Friendly Arm Inn. Just follow the road east and then to the north when you find the crossroads. There you will meet Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends and you can trust them."

Something was very wrong if his father was even contemplating the idea that they might be separated. Sure, the iron plague had energised the local bandit gangs, but bandits would only target those they could make a tidy profit from. Firebead had travelled from Beregost in the south to Candlekeep without issue. The names Khalid and Jaheira were familiar but they weren't someone Caliban could put faces too. If he had met them, it would have been a long time ago. They may have even been friends of his mother.

"We really need to talk about this," Caliban muttered as he followed his father towards the gate.

"We will, my son, trust me," Gorion replied as he ducked beneath the portcullis. "Once we are on the road."

They were Caliban's first steps outside of Candlekeep's walls in his life and he stopped to look back at the tall fortress, but only for a moment. Gorion was already making a brisk pace. The setting sun cast the fortress into shadow and, up on the wall, Caliban could only just spy the bright pink tunic that belonged to none but Imoen. She waved to him and he raised his hand in reply.

And, just like that, Caliban turned to follow his father, putting the only life he had ever known behind him.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

_Way of the Lion_

Night fell fast and with it came the cold. Pulling his tunic tighter around himself, Caliban hurried to keep pace with his father. Gorion, for all his age and long monastic robes, was making good time. His father, who had always turned away from physical exertion, was threatening to outpace him. And yet he had given no reason as to why they had to move with such haste.

"Hurry, child," Gorion said, "The night can only get worse so we must find shelter soon. But don't worry, I will explain everything as soon as there is time."

Suddenly, Gorion turned and stepped off the cobblestone path that marked the Way of the Lion, the road from Candlekeep that led to the rest of the Sword Coast, and into the woods. The moonlight was fickle tonight, hidden behind the clouds, and that cast the trees and shrubs into ghostly shapes that seemed like they belonged in one of the stories that Caliban's father would tell him to lull him to sleep. Caliban wished for a story now, wished for his father to do anything to dispel the ominous feeling of unease that had gripped them both since that morning and, perhaps, earlier still.

And then something shifted in the shrubs and trees ahead of them. Caliban felt his blood run cold and the skin on his neck and back pucker up with goose flesh. Memories of the knife-wielding assassin came unbidden to him, flashing before him. Gorion raised his hands.

"Wait," Gorion said slowly, "Something is wrong."

Caliban's hand fell to his blade, gripping it at the hilt. "What do you mean?"

That sound again, shifting in the woods ahead of them. The crack of something breaking underfoot.

"We," Gorion stated, "Are in an ambush. Prepare yourself."

And then they were upon them.

It was the ogres that Caliban saw first, creatures that he had only read about in books. Large humanoids, almost double his size, and holding heavy maces that they could use to crush bone and flesh with their brutal strength. Behind them was a woman in dark leather armor, almost invisible in the bushes, and only the slight shimmer of an arrowhead, ready to fire at any moment, gave any indication that she was a threat.

A fourth figure stepped out of the darkness then, almost as large as the two ogres, only invisible because of the midnight-black sheen of his heavy armour. The thick plates, the heaviest set of armour that Caliban had ever seen, covered him from head to toe, and almost every inch of his suit was adorned with brutal spikes that seemed for function and not decoration. Even in the darkness, his eyes burned like a pair of miniature suns. He held a long blade in one hand, one that seemed almost as long as Caliban was tall.

"You are perceptive for an old man," the armoured figure stated. His voice was dark, deep and regal, as much a weapon as the blade in his hand. "You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist it shall be a waste of your life!"

"You're a fool if you think I would trust in your benevolence," Gorion replied. His voice was something beyond the firm reprimands that Caliban had heard from him. This was a sharp, commanding order, the voice of someone who expected to be obeyed without question. It was not a tone Caliban had heard Gorion take with anyone in Candlekeep. "Step aside," Gorion warned, "And you and your lackies will be unhurt."

The armoured figure chuckled, raising his titanic weapon and pointing the tip towards the pair, and the sound of his laughter made Caliban's blood freeze over. "I'm sorry that you feel that way, old man." Even this far away, Caliban knew that the giant was smiling.

The ogres moved on them first, their crushing weapons raised above their heads. They didn't make it two paces before Gorion had cut one down with a blast of acid and burnt a hole straight through the second with a lightning bolt. With a quick, deft movement of his hands, Gorion's form shifted and there were suddenly four identical copies of him, surrounding him, protecting him.

They all shouted as one: "Run, Caliban, get out of here!"

"I can't leave you!" Caliban shouted back, knuckles tightening around his blade.

The woman behind the dark giant let loose her arrow with an expert eye. The arrow took Caliban in the shoulder and he shouted in pain but before she could ready for a second shot, Gorion had bathed her hiding place in flame.

"Run!" Gorion shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.

And so Caliban ran.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

_Way of the Lion_

Caliban was safe. That thought was the only thing that mattered to Gorion. It allowed him to approach what he knew was coming with a calm air. He murmured another incantation, summoning up a well of arcane power, and let the energy flow through him and into his fingertips. It had been a long time since his days of adventuring, a long time spent cloistered behind the walls of Candlekeep, a long time spent playing as some simple bibliophilic monk, but Gorion had been careful to not lose any of his edge. There were few wizards more powerful than him.

The ogres were down and the archer was retreating. That left only their leader.

Sarevok.

Sarevok was advancing on him with long, determined strides, his great sword held in two hands and ready to swing. Gorion ducked backwards, just in time for Sarevok to sweep his blade through three of Gorion's mirror images. So, he was familiar with the arcane arts. Gorion wasn't too surprised, not with everything he had been told. But another swing like that and he would have nothing left to confuse his enemy with.

Caliban had never known how much power his father had truly been able to wield. And with him gone, far away, Gorion knew he could truly wield it.

With a loud incantation and a flurry of hand movements, Gorion unleashed an onslaught of magical projectiles. The woods lit up around him and Sarevok with ruby red light as miniature comets streaked from his hands and exploded against Sarevok's plate mail. With each movement of his hands, dozens of magical missiles came forth, summoned by Gorion's will, and were sent against Sarevok. No man, beast or creature had ever survived such a fusillade, such an awe-inspiring display of magical power. Even the mighty dragon Firkraag had been sent reeling from such an assault.

But Gorion knew that this opponent, this man in black armor, was far more powerful than any mere dragon.

Sarevok came through the smoke without even slowing. He didn't even flinch.

Sarevok slashed again with a powerful horizontal strike that could no doubt cut a man in two and the last of Gorion's images dissipated like dust on the wind. Now it was just him and his opponent.

"So, this is how it ends for the great and powerful Gorion," Sarevok said, quickly altering the grip on his blade to turn the swing into a thrust which caught Gorion's shoulder and ripped through his robes and flesh with ease. Gorion shouted out in pain and fell backwards, refusing to fall to his knees, refusing to yield to the monster that would kill him and his son and anyone else who got in his path with nary a thought.

"I may fall tonight, Sarevok, but my son will bring an end to you and your maniacal plans," Gorion seethed through his teeth, wishing he could blot out the pain with a healing cantrip.

"You think so highly of him, so highly that you hid him away in Candlekeep instead of letting him seize the power that is his birthright. I will find him, and I will kill him. And you will die knowing that you were wrong." Sarevok's heavy footfalls were slow, ponderous, taking his time as he advanced on Gorion. "I would have waited an eternity for this moment."

Sarevok lifted his blade above his head. "But in the moment where he is on his knees, begging for his pitiful life, I will be certain to tell him what you could not. After all, we _are_ family."

His sword fell and Gorion felt a sharp pain and then - mercifully - nothing.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

_Way of the Lion_

Slowly, Caliban returned to the world of the waking. He clenched his eyes shut against the harsh, bright light. This morning, the rays of the sun felt especially cruel.

As did the sharp pain in his side.

Caliban rolled onto his other side, the lethargy of waking vanishing at the painful jab. He had slept in his tunic and breaches, meaning it was unlikely that he had been stabbed - that would hurt a lot more than just a sharp poke. He reached for his sword, found it exactly where he had left it. If some animal or some creature was skulking around, looking for a meal, he'd scare them off.

Caliban took up his sword, turned back and finally glimpsed the thing responsible for his rather rude awakening.

"Imoen?"

Imoen grinned back at him, sheepish but evidently pleased. "Yup, that's me. But you might wanna drop the sword. Here, I'll put mine down if you do the same." She dropped the stick that she had used to prod Caliban in the side with an exaggerated gesture, stepping back. As she did, Caliban noticed the bow slung over her back. She was always a good shot and, in spite of everything, had enough sense to leave Candlekeep armed. "I wanted to make sure that you were still..."

"Alive?" Caliban asked.

Imoen nodded, her face creased with anxious lines. "Yes! I snuck out of Candlekeep and I saw- I saw what happened to Gorion," she said, collecting herself. "I'm so sorry."

"It really happened then," Caliban said, picking himself up, although he didn't let go of his sword. For the time being, he would be keeping one hand on it. He looked over at Imoen and saw concern still written plainly on her features. "A man attacked us. In full plate."

"What did he want? Was he a bandit? The iron plague-"

Caliban shook his head. "I don't think he was any sort of bandit. He had ogres with him. He was after me, Imoen, I don't know why."

"You?"

He nodded. "He asked for me. I ran. Gorion told me to run and I did. Someone tried to kill me in Candlekeep too, Imoen. These events have to be linked."

Imoen's face went pale. "In Candlekeep? When?"

"Just before we left."

Imoen took a deep breath, rubbed her hands over her pink and purple tunic. "This explains the letter," she said.

"Letter?"

"The letter. I- um- read one of Gorion's letters the other day. I don't remember exactly what it said but, well, it all makes sense. He might still have it on his body?"

Caliban nodded and looked up towards the morning sky to get his bearings. "Then that's where we have to go."

After all, they wouldn't be welcome back in Candlekeep.

* * *

Caliban led the way north, with Imoen following closely behind. He was keenly aware that every step was taking him closer to the sight of his dead foster father, and to the possibility of attack by whoever the armoured figure had been, but some part of Caliban compelled him onwards, heedless of the danger. He wasn't sure it it was sheer bravery, like the stories he used to read, or rather a morbid sense of needing to know if Gorion was well and truly dead.

They found Gorion's body in a small clearing, one that had been scorched open by magical fire. The place still smelt of wood smoke and the ground was smeared with ash and littered with broken foliage. Had Gorion done this?

They found his head several feet away.

Caliban stared down at his foster father for a long time, perhaps until the sun had risen high into the air. Imoen said nothing, but he could hear her crying. Caliban wanted to cry, felt like he should cry, but felt nothing except anger. Some part of him couldn't connect the headless corpse with the memory of his foster father. All his mind could do was wander to the events of the previous night: someone had ambushed them just meters away from his home, demanded his life, and cut down his own father. All for what?

Gorion's lifeless head provided no answers.

There was talk of spells that could return the dead to life, Caliban had heard of them, but even if they could bring Gorion's body to a mage there would be no point to it. Even the gods themselves had limits to their powers, and decapitation was one of them.

It pained him to do it, but Caliban took to one knee and began going through his father's robes. He took his father's coin pouch, his dagger, whatever he could find. Hidden inside the interior of his robes he found, as Imoen had indicated, the letter.

_ My friend Gorion,_

_ Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper time frame. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point._

_ Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move very soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point_

_ Should anything go awry, do not hesitate to seek aid from travellers along the way. I do not need to remind thee that it is a dangerous land, even without our current concerns, and a party is stronger than an individual in all respects. Should additional assistance be required, I understand that Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends and will no doubt help however they can._

_ Luck be with us all. I'm getting too old for this._

** E**

The letter didn't provide any immediate answers, only more riddles. Caliban scowled at it, and then rolled it up, passing it to Imoen to keep track of. "Well?" Imoen asked. Caliban racked his brain, trying to think of someone who might have sent Gorion such an ominous letter. Whoever this 'E' was, they knew the attack was coming - but whether they were a friend of Gorion's hoping to warn him or an accomplice of the armoured murderer hoping to compel Gorion into the trap was unclear.

"I don't know," Caliban said, "But it seems like they knew this was coming." He indicated Gorion's body.

"So, what do we do?" Imoen asked. "Do we bury him?"

Caliban frowned. "I wish we could," he said at last. "But we don't have the tools, and they - the men who did this - will come back here because they probably think we'll come back here. And we did. We have to go. The last thing Gorion said was that we will find friends at the Friendly Arm Inn, and I know that is just along the Way of the Lion and then north at the Great Crossroads. If we leave now, and make good pace, we might be able to make it by the next morning. And then we find who did this, we find out why why did this, and we make them pay."

Imoen nodded, although Caliban could see that her cheerful mood hadn't recovered since they had come to this broken clearing. Perhaps it never would. "Okay."

* * *

Back south, they found the Way of the Lion. The cobblestones felt good under Caliban's feet, giving him a familiar reminder of home. But any reminder of home brought back memories of Gorion and, even as pleasant as they were, all they brought with them was rage. A portly traveller attempted to wave them down, but Caliban shot him a look. Whatever the man saw in his face, he hurried along.

As Caliban led the way around a sharp bend, he caught sight of two individuals on the road ahead. One was tall, lanky, clad in dark green robes. The other was short with the unmistakable build of a halfling - and the unmistakable glint of blades at his belt. And they had seen him, too.

"Caliban?" Imoen asked. She was reaching for her bow.

"Be ready," he replied, his voice low. "We don't know who these people are."

They kept moving. Caliban refused to be intimidated but he couldn't quite dispel the notion that these two strangers were in league with those who had attacked him. As they grew closer, Caliban could spot a series of intricate, black tattoos over the green-robed man's face.

The same man that was now waving him down.

"Two young babes wandering the woods?" the man asked. His voice was like honey and while the other wore his weapons openly, Caliban felt as if this man was the more dangerous of the pair.

"Aye," spoke his halfling companion, "And one of 'em looks to have been quite roughed up as well."

"Indeed," said Greenrobes, "I can offer you a healing potion, if you wish, as a token of goodwill and brotherhood between strangers." His dark eyes wandered to Imoen, as if seeing her for the first time. "Or personhood." He thrust the small vial out towards Caliban who took it, although more out of reflex than anything.

"And we'll not even charge ye anythin' for it," said the halfling.

For a second, the wizard glared at his companion, but then his eyes became warm and he said to Caliban, "Although your conscience knows otherwise! I am Xzar, and this is my trusty companion, Montaron - even if he is very disturbing to my demeanour!"

"Just like all good people," Montaron grumped.

"However," Xzar said, "However! My compatriot and I are headed for Nashkel. Our business is not your concern, but suffice it to say that we are investigating the iron shortage for some acquaintances of mine. Perhaps as payment you may travel with us?"

Caliban frowned. Not only was Nashkel upon the southern edge of the Sword Coast, bordering the neighbouring nation of Amn, and therefore in the completely opposite direction of where they were headed, payment had not been expected for the vial. He went to hand the vial back to Xzar. "I can't say I can do that. I'm headed north, actually, to meet with some friends of mine. We could meet you in Nash-"

"Oh no," Xzar said, sounding distraught. "It is not safe for anyone to travel these roads alone! Let us make haste to your friends, and then make further haste to the south!"

Caliban realised he couldn't, and shouldn't, refuse.

As the new group made its way east, along the Way of the Lion and the sun began to sink lower in the sky, Imoen shot Caliban a questioning look. He could only shrug. The old saying was that there was safety in numbers, however, Xzar and Montaron didn't seem to be the most level-headed of individuals. Caliban could scarcely think of what would bring such a bizarre wizard together with a cut-throat halfling or who would give either of them a task to investigate the iron shortage. But, despite this, something reassured Caliban - whoever would expect to find the ward of a Candlekeep scholar in the company of such a pair of rogues?

At least, that is what Caliban hoped.


End file.
